


Watching

by aralias



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: April Showers 2015, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-04
Updated: 2007-09-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:09:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3673578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series 3. The Master watches Ten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Uploading old fic for April Showers 2015. All spelling/grammar errors left as originally posted.

When the Doctor first appears in his time line, the sensation is so new and shocking that it overpowers the drumbeat and the Master actually drops his phone, mid-sentence. He has enough presence of mind to pick it up and apologise to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, before he starts running. Various other important political figures attempt to engage him in conversation, but the Archangel network has been running without a hitch for at least two months. A quick “busy” is enough to send them back to their own business as he hurtles out of number ten. It’s a stupid risk, but he wants to see this new Doctor with his own eyes, so, he will. It's that simple.

Of course, they have met before, back before the Master remembered who he was. But Yana’s memories are human and typically fallible. He remembers the Doctor is unconventionally handsome, typically wears a brown-pinstripe suit and says “brilliant!” a lot. He remembers that the Doctor is a genius, and doesn’t mind people knowing about it, but this is only to be expected. He was always an insufferable show-off. 

Yana never looked closely enough to tell what colour the Doctor’s new eyes are though. He can’t remember what the Doctor smells like, because he had smoked in his youth and the Doctor’s scent was too subtle. A second in his own body, his own blood leaking through his fingers, was not enough. He wants more. 

He’s seen pictures since then. Torchwood has fifty people whose only job it is to research the activities of the Doctor, and, as Secretary of State for Defence, he has, of course, been privy to their findings. They are surprisingly detailed, though the idiots are convinced he’s a danger to them: as  _if_ he would do anything that interesting. Sometimes, when everybody else has gone home, the Master amuses himself by inventing atrocities committed by the Doctor and adding them surreptitiously to the files. But it’s not enough, not nearly enough. 

The feeling of another Time Lord alive in the universe is intoxicating. The Master works his way through the streets of London, following the feeling that is the Doctor, which tugs at him somewhere near his navel. The smell of humanity’s waste is overpowering, and he can hear the drums that he, himself, installed in the tread of passing dogs and the tinny twang of a rock band playing through a set of headphones. Somebody calls “hey, it’s Mr Saxon!” and he waves and smiles and walks on. 

Soon the streets begin to look familiar and he realises that, yes, of course, the Doctor is visiting Rose Tyler’s house. Torchwood has plenty of information on her too. Young, blonde and rather pretty if the photographs are accurate. No need to ask why he picked her then. Clearly, the Master thinks, picking his way past a dog and beggar holding out an empty McDonald’s cup, a desirable home address was not taken duly into consideration. 

He turns the corner into Rose Tyler’s street and there it is, parked on the corner with the casual arrogance of those who believe they are invisible. He walks up to it, as if he, too, belongs in the dingy back-streets of the capital and lays a hand on the surface that feels like wood. He wonders if the Doctor’s TARDIS can sense the other version of itself locked away in Lucy’s garage: its insides an angry crimson. He's not entirely sure whether the Archangel network works on living ships, and, if it doesn’t, it's possible the TARDIS can get a message to the Doctor. Well, too bad. Not this time. “If you do,” he whispers to it, “the time and space continuum will be seriously fucked up, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? Let it play out.” He grins and pats it like a dog. “Good TARDIS.”

There is the sound of the door opening in the street and a naturally very loud woman talking even more loudly than usual. “Take care of her, do you hear?”

“Yes, Jackie, I will. Of course, I will. I always do.”

“Oh, leave him alone, mum.”

“I just want to be sure you’re safe, sweetheart. I know how dangerous it is out there.”

For a moment, the Master thinks he may wait and talk to the Doctor and his young, blonde Rose. Some innocuous comment about the weather or how it’s funny, but you don’t see many 1950s police boxes in the year 2007, do you? But, even though it’s been specifically calibrated to prevent the Doctor noticing him, the Archangel network has only limited power over the other Time Lord’s perceptions. Drawing attention to himself is most unwise, and so the Master slips away down the alleyway with the tramp and the dog and watches as the Doctor unlocks his TARDIS. His eyes are dark brown, the Master notes with his superior vision, and he smells of the TARDIS and hair products and a small plant only found on the lower levels of Jupiter. With the door open, he grins broadly and sweeps a low, silly bow for Rose. “After you.”

She laughs and thwacks him playfully, before ducking into the TARDIS. The Doctor takes one last look at London, smiles and follows her inside. A few seconds later and the TARDIS dematerialises with a familiar jerky whooping. 

The Master checks his watch and discovers that he is almost an hour late for a cabinet meeting. Never mind. They’ll forgive him. And it was worth it. 

He walks back down the alleyway with a spring in his step, dropping a Euro into the tramp’s cup, well aware that the coin will be useless to the man. It won’t be long until the Doctor returns if his obsession with Earth is anything to go by and it’s usually fairly reliable. Maybe a month. He has to return to pick up Martha Jones anyway, who doesn’t yet know of his existence. The Master has checked into her hospital. She checked his temperature, whilst he tried not to laugh. It’s the little things that keep you going, like the Doctor’s final smile just for the Earth, when he thought nobody was watching. 

From now on though, the Master thinks, there will always be someone watching. He grins to himself and ambles back up to Downing Street.

 


End file.
